


Silent Night

by plaguedbynargles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Christmas, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8811271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguedbynargles/pseuds/plaguedbynargles
Summary: Sherlock has every intention of spending Christmas Eve alone, until a certain consulting criminal shows up at his door.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It was meant to be fluff. It isn't fluff.

               Sherlock supposed that he’d misinterpreted how much warmth John’s company actually brought to the flat, but it finally hit him, on Christmas Eve, just how dreary the flat, London, the  _world_  seemed when one didn’t have a companion to weather it with. He’d almost gone and hollered for Mrs. Hudson, but had quickly remembered why the smell of baking has been absent from 221B for the past eight months. Calling Molly or Greg would likely be futile, as they, like John, all had real families and more important obligations to attend to. The Scotland Yard Christmas party would have been a possibility (one that he’d once have attended with a fond eyeroll), but Greg was taking Molly this year, and Sherlock remembered what happened when one “third wheeled” for a couple in love too well to subject himself to that again. There wasn’t even a bit of snow falling to soften the December chill…only icy rain pattering against the windows, threatening the very idea of Sherlock actually leaving the place to get something to  _eat_  for Christmas dinner.

               It wasn’t that he hadn’t spent Christmas alone before, or that he wasn’t welcome at home. Somehow, this time of year always managed to heighten his nerves, and therefore he tended towards avoiding company for everyone’s sake. Truly, he liked the _idea_ of spending Christmas alone; he didn’t have to dress up (not that he really minded), and he could order takeout rather than bothering with a uselessly fattening and extravagant meal. There was no use for chatter, and he could compose as he wanted, perhaps do an experiment…the possibilities were endless.

               Why then, did he end up feeling awful every _damn_ year?

               Mycroft spent most Christmases alone, as he enjoyed the quiet for a chance to work (and to binge on chocolates in peace). Mummy had spent many Christmases away from home for the sake of mathematical academia. Sherlock, in theory, loved spending Christmas alone. Every year he’d ever done it, the lack of plans had felt like a relief. And every year, he ended up unable to shake that feeling that what he was doing was _wrong_ and _depressing_ as John had put it when they’d lived together. Christmas, everyone had insisted round a plate of Mrs. Hudson’s best gingerbread cookies, was not a time to be spent alone, but with those a person loved most dearly.

               Of course, Sherlock thought bitterly, he didn’t have people like that anymore, so here he was, remembering why suicides were at their highest this time of year. Perhaps the one upside to being alone was the freedom to inject as many illegal substances into his veins as he wanted. He’d developed quite a stash since John had left, and Mycroft had become so busy with Henry (Arsehole) that he’d forgotten to come check on Sherlock. Which was wonderful, actually, as now he could do whatever he wanted…

               Just as Sherlock was about to get up and retrieve his fireplace stash, inexplicably, there was a knock at the door.

               Instantly, he was on the alert, tense as a rubber band drawn taut. Who wouldn’t have buzzed up? Mycroft, certainly, but he was, of course, working; not in the mood for being fawned over by Mummy and Daddy, just like Sherlock.

               Apprehensive and ready to strike at a moment’s notice, Sherlock padded, barefoot, to the door, cracking it open, just a smidge, before pulling it open entirely, unable to believe his eyes.

               Standing in front of him was none other than James Moriarty, dapper as a dolphin, carrying an umbrella, a pizza, a massive bottle of sparkling wine, and a cell phone. Sherlock blinked, unable to stop his mouth from twisting into a sneer; half out of pure, unadulterated shock, and half because however terrible his Christmas had objectively been so far, it was, undoubtedly, about to get a lot worse. He did a quick mental check of everything near him that could be used as a weapon, if need be, but knew very well it was pointless. Jim wouldn’t have shown up on Christmas if this had been _that_ sort of rivalry.

               “Was starting to wonder,” Jim said casually, “if you’d gotten my text.” He looked a bit surprised to see Sherlock, as if he was unsure how he’d ended up standing just there, on the detective’s doorstep. A lack of certainty looked strange on his face, which Sherlock had only seen in a sneer, a scowl, and all manner of maniacal expressions designed to intimidate.

 _And mouth opened wide for a gun_. But Sherlock didn’t like to think about that, much.

               He hadn’t, in fact, gotten the text. His cell phone was sitting underneath some drafts of sheet music, as he’d assumed he wouldn’t be receiving any texts tonight, and therefore hadn’t bothered to move it to where it was visible. The detective was only able to stare at Jim and wonder if, perhaps, he had already taken the drugs, and this was all merely an incredibly vivid hallucination. Jim seemed to recognize this, and rolled his eyes.

               “Yes, I’m alive. Yes, I’m really here. Can I come in, or did you have another commitment?”

               Sherlock blinked some more, taking a careful inhale of melted cheese, tomato sauce, and basil, at the very least curious as to what kind of scheme involved Italian food and tastefully expensive alcohol. Petrichor was still dripping off Jim’s umbrella.

               “Please,” Sherlock stepped aside to let Jim in, quelled less by the fact that the flat was a mess and more by the realization of how dark the room actually was. He’d been lost in his thoughts for so long that, when the sun had set and the rain had started, he hadn’t remembered to turn a light on.

               Somehow, he was comforted by the notion that Jim had likely been sitting in a similar darkness before coming here. He was a bit damp from the rain, in a coat and nice trousers, but otherwise showed no signs of having just come from any sort of business. But then, Sherlock didn’t know if not looking to have been involved in violence was any indication that Jim was, in fact, out of commission on Christmas Eve. Maybe if the criminal weren’t so damn _versatile_ , he’d know for certain.

               And, just like that, Sherlock had a terrible realization that he had missed Jim. Although, that could very easily just be because John had found Mary and Mrs. Hudson had died and Lestrade had become entangled in romance with Molly and Mycroft had gotten tied up with the other one (Arsehole). It was a reasonable, stupid, emotional reaction.

               “Good to see you’re well,” Sherlock watched Jim out of the corner of his eye as the criminal put his umbrella away and shrugged his coat off, like they were bloody _family_.

               “Oh, don’t pretend you aren’t a bit pleased,” Jim picked up the pizza and wine and took them to the kitchen, saw the disaster that Sherlock had covered every countertop with, and turned around to face him once more. “Where do you want this?”

               Sherlock stared. Jim was wearing a deep purple sweater. Sherlock was wearing green and blue plaid pajamas and a t shirt. Jim’s hair was slightly frizzed up from humidity, for once not slicked back and untouchable. Sherlock’s hair was its usual tangled, bird’s nest of curls. The rain pattered against the window, suddenly harder, as though attempting to fill the expanse of silence between them.

               After a moment, Jim sighed, giving his signature, caustic eye roll and letting his shoulders deflate, just a bit. Sherlock could feel a bit of his manic energy dissipate, leaving something unfamiliar and quiet in its wake before the criminal opened his eyes once more to look Sherlock straight in the face and say, with complete conviction:

               “I fucking hate Christmas, okay?”

               It was at this time that Sherlock realized that the evening, perhaps, was not going to be as unpleasant as he’d originally calculated.

               They reached a silent agreement, then. Without another word, Sherlock took the pizza and the wine from Jim and set them down on John’s chair. He switched a light on here and there until 221B was bathed in the kind of golden light that made one feel as if loved ones were around, even when they weren’t. Jim, meanwhile, moved some furniture out of the way and made to start the fireplace, though when he knelt down and flicked his lighter open, Sherlock realized one second too late what he would find there.

               The criminal lifted the bag of powder to eye level, then looked incredulously to Sherlock.

               “White Christmas?”

               Sherlock didn’t laugh. The expression on Jim’s face almost read as _disappointment_ , though a man that strapped bombs to people for a living didn’t exactly have a right to judge, did he?

               Jim tossed the bag to the side with a sneer and finished lighting the fireplace, setting the pizza and the wine down on the rug in front of it before sitting himself down a reasonable distance away, reclining against Sherlock’s chair.

               When Sherlock continued to stare at him, Jim raised a mildly impatient eyebrow that said _coming_?

               Slowly, Sherlock made his way over to Jim, still convinced that this was some kind of mad hallucination, before sitting himself down on the rug, crosslegged and barefoot.

               He glared at Jim before throwing at him a single word, “How?”

               “Have you thought about it?” Jim raised both eyebrows this time.

               Of course he bloody had. Sherlock had thought about it Jim’s death every day since it had happened. And then even more every day since it had become possible that he was not, in fact, dead, and then some more when John had moved out and everyone else had subsequently left. Sherlock, in a strange way, felt an almost _warmth_ towards Moriarty for caring enough to even show up to make sure he wasn’t dead himself.

               But no. This wasn’t about caring. This was the game. He had to be careful about that. What was he thinking?

               “You flatter yourself,” Sherlock said softly, cruelly.

               “Don’t pretend that you don’t care. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have asked,” Jim replied, neutral, “You care to know, so you must have thought about it. If you don’t know, then you haven’t truly thought about it.”

               “Why are you here?” Sherlock asked tiredly.

               “I answered that, rather clearly, just as well as your first question, you just don’t listen.”

               Sherlock was silent, glaring into the flames now crackling happily in the fireplace for the first time in months.

               “Don’t do that,” Jim shook his head darkly, watching Sherlock in that unblinking, predatory way of his, “You overthink, and it blinds you.”

               “You killed yourself,” Sherlock’s head snapped over to Jim, a wild look in his eyes, “I felt the… _vibration_ in your body. It wasn’t a sniper, it wasn’t a blank, and no one could shoot themselves without killing themselves or doing some serious brain damage.”

               “Good…?” Jim prompted like a teacher whose pupil was on the right track to the answer, but hadn’t quite reached it yet. Sherlock wanted to strangle him.

               “So how aren’t you dead?” the detective almost shouted. It left a reverberating silence that was filled only by crackling fire. The rain had slowed to an icy mist.

               Jim stared into the fire, pensive. It was only after several long seconds that he replied.

               “Maybe I’m the ghost of Christmas past,” he smirked, a little fiery spark reflected in his eyes that made Sherlock both bristle with fury and grow hot in the pit of his stomach.

               Slowly, the mirth drained from Jim’s expression, leaving nothing in its wake but another heavy silence.

               Jim turned to watch the fire, “It was an accident.”

               “I don’t believe you,” Sherlock said immediately, earning him a rather scary look from Jim.

               “Bet?”

               They locked eyes again, making Sherlock feel quite hot once more and his lips part slightly, almost of their own will. He looked away first to fiddle with the pizza box.

               “No Christmas at Mummy’s then?” Sherlock asked as he opened the lid, enveloping them in a waft of basil and oregano. He studied the pie, counting olives, green peppers, and what must have been sausage.

               _Fascinating._

               He hated olives, but the fact that James Moriarty had ordered a pizza and asked for these specific toppings was amusing enough to him that he didn’t mind having to pick them off. Jim watched him, and Sherlock was ridiculously cognizant of the way he moved his fingers to set the olives aside on the lid of the box.

               “Nope.”

               The way Jim said it indicated to Sherlock that he wasn’t to inquire further about family. _Interesting._

“And you,” Jim continued, “No longer have John, nor Mrs. Hudson, nor Lestrade. I didn’t even need snipers.”

               Sherlock paused, his slice halfway to his mouth, and Jim silently apologized by grabbing one, too, not picking any toppings off.

               “And you,” Sherlock countered, his slice still hovering, “are of course alone.”

               “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim asked, sounding genuinely curious to hear the answer.

               “No one ever gets to me,” Sherlock imitated, watching Jim carefully for reception, “Not something someone who _isn’t_ alone on Christmas would say. No one can know where you live, friends are a liability, and something you’re not interested in, and getting together with anyone half as dangerous as you are would be asking for an assassination.”

               “You aren’t dangerous?” Jim inquired quietly, popping an olive into his mouth, then shaking his head in disappointment, “John’s made you soft…”

               Sherlock snorted, “And you’re better off?”

               If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Jim looked a bit sad. Trick of the light, surely. Sherlock eyed the wine suspiciously. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have blamed it for most of tonight’s oddities, but unfortunately it was not yet opened.

               “This isn’t,” Jim changed topics, suddenly even quieter than usual, “a game, Sherlock. Not tonight. Please don’t think of it that way.”

               Sherlock frowned, “Then what-?”

               “You know, it was common, during extended conflicts in days long past,” Jim monologued, studying his crust, “to postpone the fighting on Christmas Eve. Consider this,” he nodded at the food, “my white flag.”

               Sherlock looked from Jim’s face, to his sweater, to his trousers, to his face again, calculating.

               It wasn’t that he was willing to overlook the damage that Jim had done over the years, or that he seemed not in the slightest bit threatening in his plum colored sweater, or that he…well, actually…that was precisely it.

               Sherlock didn’t mind the companionship. He didn’t. In fact, he was rather enjoying this so far. This gentle sparring was nothing like the intimidation that he remembered coming with Jim. Without that factor there was just…intrigue. Not that there had been any absence of it before. Just, now, Sherlock _wanted_ to continue talking, and eating, and looking. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, but now that he thought of it, he couldn’t really remember the last time he’d eaten.

               Suddenly, he got up, making his way briskly to the kitchen and digging loudly through a drawer of miscellaneous instruments before taking out a corkscrew, returning to the fire, and opening the wine with a resounding _pop_.

               “Fine,” Sherlock said, daring to raise the bottle to his lips and take a deep swig of it before setting it back down on the rug with a dull thump, Jim watching him with eyes sparkling as the wine itself, all the while.

               “Didn’t take you for a drinker,” Jim took his turn with the bottle, taking an equally hefty drink.

               “Not usually,” Sherlock glanced to where Jim had tossed the bag of cocaine, and the criminal followed his eyes, swallowing and shaking his head in disapproval before taking another slice of pizza, his crust abandoned.

               “That shit’ll kill you, you know,” he took a bite, olives and all.

               “If I’d wanted to be lectured, I’d have gone to Mummy and Daddy’s tonight,” Sherlock sneered.

               Jim shrugged, “I won’t play anymore, if you get stupid.”

               “Pity.”

               Jim licked his lips, a smile that pretended to know more than it did ghosting across his face, “You don’t mean that. Why else would you have let me in?”

               “Wasn’t any food in the flat,” Sherlock looked from the bottle to the pizza, and reached for the bottle, taking another drink and letting it fizz gently on his tongue.

               Jim’s laugh startled him—loud, single syllabled, and dry, but there nonetheless. He eyed the man across from him, intrigued by this new side of the criminal.

               “Mummy’s cooking must be pretty bad, then,” Jim teased. Sherlock looked at the corners of his eyes, all crinkled up with amusement.

               Sherlock didn’t answer, just gently snorted before grabbing another piece of pizza. He was still a bit too shaken by this all to be an active participant in a conversation about Christmas with _Jim Moriarty._ He probably should have said some kind of quip about Mycroft, but then again, he _should_ not have been doing this at all. He should have probably married like John and procreated and had a Christmas dinner with a slightly overcooked roast and flavorless sugar cookies with expensive frosting, and sad Christmas crackers and faked gift reactions. That was what he _ought_ to have been doing. Christmases alone were for the young, and Sherlock knew by the way the cold hurt his bones that he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

               “By God,” Jim said, voice hushed. When Sherlock looked up, he looked taken aback, his mouth slightly ajar, brown eyes wide, “You really miss him, don’t you? Them.”

               “Wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Sherlock tossed an olive in the fire and watched it pop. Jim didn’t even appear to have noticed.

               “ _Why_?”

               When Sherlock forced himself, slowly, to turn back to Jim, he looked almost…pitying. It made him bristle. He only glared at Jim.

               Jim frowned, shaking his head, as though to himself, before continuing in earnest, “You don’t need them. You could do so much better.”

               “You sound like a child,” Sherlock said viciously.

               “And you’re acting like one,” Jim countered, almost, _almost_ , looking genuinely upset.

               There was another long pause. Sherlock blinked, starting to feel the wine making his head go fuzzy. Of course, that would be the plan. Get him drunk, and…and…something.

               “Why are you here?” he blurted out.

               Jim just looked at him calmly, breathing, the fire reflected in his dark eyes like they were mirrors.

               He raised an eyebrow, making it look like he was considering the pizza, his head cocked slightly to the side.

               “I suppose I didn’t think it quite…fair,” he looked up at Sherlock, expression unreadable, “that the two of us had to spend Christmas alone, while everyone _else_ gets to spend it with others. Seemed illogical not to come together.”

               “You hate Christmas,” Sherlock pointed out.

               “Doesn’t mean it hurts less when you have to spend it alone,” Jim countered.

Sherlock couldn’t argue with that logic.

               “I don’t hate it,” Jim continued after a moment, still looking at the pizza like he found it to be the most fascinating thing in the room, “Not really. Just in the way you hate something that you can’t have.”

               Sherlock blinked, his heart pounding very fast all of a sudden. He knew that feeling.

               “They don’t have Christmas parties, for people like us,” Jim continued, finally taking another bite of his pizza, “Not that they would work. Not that we’d want them. But no one asks if we want them. And I…remember when Christmas was wonderful. I was very young, but I remember a warmth. It was easy to sleep, everything tasted better, there were dozens of people around that adored you because you were a blank slate…”

               “Quiet.”

               Jim looked at Sherlock.

               “It was quiet,” Sherlock continued, “Never later,” not when Mycroft and he had gotten old enough to start conflicts with one another, “but…initially.”

               A small, serious nod from Jim, “Everything slowed, for a night. Doesn’t do that anymore.”

               Sherlock shook his head. No, it didn’t.

               “Consider this,” Jim grabbed the bottle and raised it in Sherlock’s direction, “my attempt at mirroring that. To slowing it down.”

               He toasted himself and took another swig, setting the bottle down with a thump.

               Sherlock leaned forward conspiratorially, only a bit tipsy, “You’re not doing a very good job.”

               Jim huffed, mocking offense, “And why is that?”

               “Oh,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You know why.”

               “No, I don’t!” Jim insisted, his eyes wide with amusement.

               “You couldn’t slow anything down if you _tried_ ,” Sherlock was unsure why his stomach was in a knot. More wine would fix it, surely.

               “Darling,” Jim grinned, eyes on the ceiling, as he shook his head, “Just because I don’t slow things down for _you_ ,” he turned back to Sherlock, “doesn’t mean I can’t do it for anyone else.”

               “Oh,” Sherlock scoffed through a mouthful of pizza, “could you even do it for _yourself_?”

               “What do you think the purpose of tonight was?” Jim spread his arms wide.

               Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Do you _feel_ slowed down?”

               Jim just stared at him, mouth open, shaking his head, and that was an answer.

               “Mm,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, finishing off another slice, “Nuff said.”

               “You think you’re _so_ smart,” Jim reached for the wine again, taking another drink before continuing, “Yes, _I’m_ Sherlock Holmes, and I play the violin. You just _wait_.”

               “ _Trembling_.”

               “Psh, go on then,” Jim waved his hand vaguely, and when Sherlock cocked his head to the side, confused, the criminal continued, “ _Play_ me something.”

               When Sherlock got up, it struck him just how badly he’d misjudged how drunk he was. He swayed dangerously on his feet, and Jim gave another one of his single laughs that was similar in pitch to a hyena’s laugh, rolling back on his haunches and clapping his hands once.

               “ _You_ are a fucking lightweight, Sherlock Holmes.”

               Sherlock only gave him a sneer in response, picking up his violin, leveling it on his shoulder, and, steadying himself, preparing to give Jim a performance he would never forget.

               He drew the bow the same way he always did across the strings, but, for some reason, this time, it elicited a horrifying screech, vibrating in his teeth and making him clench his jaw.

               Jim, for lack of a better term, lost it.

               What laughter he’d shown before had _nothing_ on the hyena like gasps that escaped him, all at once, as though a lifetime’s worth of mirth had been stored up just underneath his ribcage. Jim, clutching at his stomach, attempted to steady himself when Sherlock shot him a deathly glare – he wasn’t a big fan of being laughed at, let alone by Moriarty, but there was something about the way Jim’s eyes did that crinkly thing at the corners, about something sparkling in his eyes that had been absent before…a warmth, of sorts…that made him, too, feel not the cold sting of ridicule, but a kind of warmth at his very core. Jim couldn’t seem to stop the laughter from bubbling up inside of him, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, just a little, looking at his feet with a gentle huff before setting his violin aside.

               “You…” Jim chuckled deeply, “You are such a fucking lightweight.” He actually wiped a _tear_ from the corner of his eye.

               “Oh, stop,” Sherlock took a step towards Jim, steadied himself on a lamp, and half fell down onto the rug again, this time a great deal closer to the criminal.

               Alright, he was fucking drunk. He didn’t remember drinking _that_ much, but…well…he had gone without food for several days. That might have done it. Sherlock wasn’t, however, so drunk that he didn’t notice the little twitchy thing Jim’s hand did, almost like he intended to reach out and steady Sherlock, then decided not to.

               “Suppose I’ll be finishing this, then?” Jim raised the bottle, toasted Sherlock, and took a deep swig. Sherlock wasn’t certain how drunk the criminal was, seeing that kind of laughter coming from him. He certainly couldn’t be _sober_.

               “Mm not drunk,” Sherlock lied, for the sake of bickering. He wanted that energy to stay in Jim’s eyes as long as possible. It was striking to see the presence of something that had been absent in their every other interaction, but he knew from experience that it would be even more striking when that good thing was taken away.

               “Sherlock Holmes, The Fucking Lightweight,” Jim grinned, laughing breathily, “Seven Times A Night in Baker Street, my arse. This is where the real story is.”

               Sherlock groaned, “You read that?”

               “Made my _week_.”

               “Fuck you,” Sherlock decided to let loose some of his uncommonly used profanity. He’d forgotten how little he cared when he was drunk.

               Jim took another swig, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

               “Ss not fair if we’re not both drunk in these things,” Jim gestured wildly with the bottle, and Sherlock’s heart catapulted itself to another _dimension_ at the implication of what he’d just said. “Alright,” he continued, “Time for a game.”

               “Thought you’d said,” Sherlock was now lying on his side, supporting himself with an elbow and looking up at Jim, “no games tonight?”

               “I lied,” Jim waved a hand flippantly, matter of factly, as though to say, _no, not that color for the drapes, it’s much too drab._ “We each get a Christmas present from the other. I want you to listen to me for mine, then you choose yours. Of course,” he rolled his eyes, “no asking for anything silly, like turning myself in.”

               “You’d find a loophole,” Sherlock bemoaned, “Like a genie.”

               Jim did that pursed lips smile thing that made Sherlock feel fuzzy around the edges, “You know I would.” Suddenly, his face grew very solemn, and he took another swig of wine, “Alright, Sherlock, do you want to know the fucking truth?”

               Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but Jim held up a hand.

               “You have to know, anyway. Your gift to me. I…” he hesitated, and Sherlock got a funny feeling again, like something was about to change, “I’ve been thinking of you.”

               Sherlock was grateful for the terrible lighting, because a good deal of blood decided to rush to his face for some reason.

               Jim nodded to himself, expression growing dark.

               “Since Carl Powers. Every day. And the longer it went on, the more I fucking _hated_ you. I hated you because you didn’t know I existed. And then I found you, and…I don’t fucking know what you see in them. That’s the truth. Sherlock, I don’t know what you saw in all of them,” Jim took another swig of alcohol, “They aren’t intelligent. They don’t think like you and me. They can’t understand you like I could. So this is my appeal to you. My last appeal to you.” He paused. “Without the bombs or the excitement, which I know you know you loved.” Another swig. “I’m the one you want.”

               Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

               “You did come here with an agenda, then.”

               “I came here because I fucking hate Christmas, and you’re the only person with the capability to make me feel less lonely.”

               And a silence, one of the heaviest that Sherlock had ever felt, encompassed the entire room with that word.

               _Lonely._

               Just like that, worlds were rewritten, viewpoints were shattered, Sherlock was forced to reconsider everything he’d ever thought he’d known about Jim Moriarty, because James Moriarty was _lonely_ , just like him. He was a lonely, substance abusing mastermind with a brain too big for his own good.

               How had Sherlock missed out on the similarities between them?

               It came to him suddenly that he was staring, mouth slightly open. Jim was watching him right back, chest rising and falling as though he’d been running.

               “An experiment.”

               Jim’s forehead scrunched.

               “What?”

               “That’s what I want,” Sherlock didn’t break eye contact, his heart hammering against his chest, “An experiment.”

               Jim licked his lips, and Sherlock knew that he was looking at his.

               “What kind of experiment?”

               Sherlock took a deep breath, “Touch me.”

               Jim was still as a statue, something very dark dancing behind his eyes. After a while of staring at Sherlock, sizing him up, he licked his lips again.

               “…Touch you.” It wasn’t a question.

               Sherlock twitched an eyebrow, “I saw your hand move.”

               Something unbelievably painful crossed Jim’s face, then, so much so that Sherlock almost expected him to cry.

               “You saw…?”

               “Just now.”

               Whatever it had been disappeared completely, to be replaced by a familiar blank stare.

               “How would you like me to do it?” Jim breathed.

               Sherlock blinked before extending his hand out slightly. Jim’s face contorted painfully before he slowly, calculatedly, reached out to Sherlock, his fingertips barely brushing the detective’s skin before he gently closed his hand around Sherlock’s.

               Sherlock’s heart was beating fast as a hummingbird’s wings, same as on the rooftop, although this time, there was no jerk of Jim’s body, no cacophonous shot signifying the shattering of Sherlock’s world.

               No.

               This time, there was radio silence. The crackling of the fire. The hush of snow beginning to fall gently outside. Sherlock moved his hand slightly in Jim’s, tracing the sinew, the outline of the delicate bones leading up to his knuckles, calloused by cold and lack of care. His eyes flicked up to Jim’s, only to find that the criminal was still staring at him with a deeply pained expression.

               “Can we…?” Jim asked quietly, unable to finish the request.

               Wide eyed and unsure, Sherlock gave a nod that was far too casual for the current context, and Jim scooted closer to him, not letting go of his hand, and slowly lowered his head. Sherlock remained still as a statue, closing his eyes when he realized what Jim was doing, waiting patiently until their foreheads were pressed together.

               Everything stopped. Time itself, Sherlock’s heart, Sherlock’s _mind._ Everything was halted by this moment of _oh_ , this must be what they all talk about.

               Christ. _This was what they talked about_.

               Jim let out a sigh that Sherlock felt he must have been holding onto for the entire time he’d known him.

               “I meant it,” Jim’s forehead moved with the words he murmured, “I have the scar.”

               “The shot,” Sherlock breathed, moving his hand in Jim’s.

               “Maybe God just loves me,” Jim whispered with a humorless, barely there laugh. “I always thought, people like us, we ought to stick together.”

               Sherlock couldn’t speak.

               “Nd you…you right fucked that up,” Jim growled. Sherlock had a wild, mad urge to tilt his head up and kiss him.

               “Just know,” Jim continued, voice rising, “that no matter how many people I’ve killed, no matter how much pain I cause, nothing will compare to what you’ve done to me.”

               He barely moved, but Sherlock could tell he was about to pull away, so he managed to choke out a “Don’t.”

               Jim froze, and Sherlock, not knowing a damn thing about what he was doing, tilted his head up, pressing his lips gently to Jim’s. It was a short thing, still and without passion. An apology kiss. An apology, and an _I wish I loved you. I think I love you. But it’s long too late. Twenty years too late._

               Sherlock pulled away with a gentle noise, and Jim’s eyes were flooded with tears. He was seething with rage.

               “I fucking _hate_ you,” Jim’s voice cracked as he shook his head, blinking back tears, before grabbing Sherlock by the hair and crashing their lips together.

               Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, his entire body suddenly alight, suddenly _Jim_ , as he let himself be drawn in, kissed and held. Let his lips be bitten, let Jim’s fingers tangle themselves in his hair, let warmth slide between them that Sherlock _knew_ were tears, but that he would never, to his grave, mention the existence of. Some of them found their way into his mouth, and when he opened his mouth for Jim’s tongue, they both shared in the saltiness; silent, tired, cheated.

               Jim pushed Sherlock onto his back, not the slightest bit careful in letting his weight down on top of him. It made it even harder for Sherlock to breathe than before, but he didn’t care. He linked his fingers through the collar of Jim’s sweater, his purple sweater, feeling wool and collarbones and that pulse that had always managed to surprise him, and they exchanged more kisses that tasted of alcohol, and pizza, and tears. The fire crackled as Jim raked his teeth on Sherlock’s skin, making the detective grunt in spite of himself. He was about to tell Jim to get off, that the nails and the sucking and the holding was too much, but, just in time, he noticed that Jim’s grip was loosening. And, sure enough, Jim’s teeth were brushed lightly against his skin, no longer hurting or leaving marks, just tracing. Sherlock no longer felt like he was being marked by where Jim sucked his skin, drawing blood too close to the surface, but by where his breath ghosted across his collarbones, his neck, his shoulders.

               Sherlock gave Jim’s neck a gentle kiss, and the criminal, agonizingly, jerked away. The detective winced at the sudden lack of heat.

               “ _Please_ ,” Jim begged, quietly, painfully.

               Sherlock stared, pupils dilated, heart pounding.

               “Now I know,” Jim said quietly, nodding to himself, his eyes just as Sherlock had remembered them; dangerous, volatile. “Hell is real, and I’m in it.”

               Something inside Sherlock, rational and terrible, returned just then, icing his veins over, reminding his heart to shut itself away.

               “It can’t happen,” he said simply. And it couldn’t. It never could have, but that didn’t stop Sherlock’s lips from tingling where Jim’s had been on them a moment ago.

               Jim opened his mouth, his pupils roving over Sherlock’s face.

               “I know,” his voice was silk; barely there, feathery soft, “You were always too late. It was never possible.”

               He took a step closer to Sherlock, who was still on the rug, towering over him. The detective had a brief but perhaps not unreasonable fear of being stepped on.

               “I want you to remember,” Jim sneered, still crying a bit, “every fucking Christmas until the day you die, every year you’re alone…I want you to remember that you could have had this. You could have had _me_.”

               “Don’t you have someone to kill?” Sherlock asked coolly, his voice expressing the opposite of what he felt. The world was ending, the last lifeboat being lowered without him.

               Jim’s face said, quite plainly, that the only blood he currently wanted was his own, on the rooftop, years ago.

               “You’ll never know what it’s like,” Jim spat, deadly quiet, “Never.”

               Sherlock stared.

               “But I hope, one day, you know how I feel,” Jim nodded frenetically, fire dancing in his eyes, “I know you will. Without them, you’re me. And without me…” his expression grew cold suddenly, almost completely blank, “…without me, you’re nothing.”

               And with that, Jim stepped out of view, the creaking of the floor the only indication of his footfalls. When Sherlock straightened up, he was alone, with the rest of a bottle of sparkling wine, half a pizza, a crackling fire, and a massive bag of cocaine. If John had been there, if anyone had been there, he’d have dismissed the criminal’s words easily. Now, they reverberated against the inside of his skull, echoing that he was, in fact, like Jim.

               In every way, they were the same. Sherlock was floored by the fact that he’d been so fooled by his “friends” into thinking he was anything other than just that…something Other. He’d been lying to himself for twenty years, and Jim had been waiting for him to stop feigning normalcy for twenty years. And now it was too late, and he was nothing.

               Again, he wondered if he’d already taken the drugs, and simply overdosed. Surely, if there was a Hell, this was it.

               He wondered why, if they were both there, they couldn’t spend their yearly punishment together. He wondered why he hadn’t realized before what the electricity that seemed to surround James Moriarty meant. And, most of all, he wondered if he would ever be able to see another person laugh again without seeing Jim.

               The fire spit an ember a few centimeters from where Sherlock lie on the rug, but he didn’t even flinch, watching it fizzle down into nothing.

               Sherlock fucking hated Christmas.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know what you think. Happy Holidays to all! ^ _ ^


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